


the past is false promises

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkward Crush, Distrust, Dragon Age Quest: Here Lies the Abyss, Epiphanies About Love, Fall Out From Dragon Age II, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Personal Growth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-01 00:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12693276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: But Hawke’s attention was suddenly elsewhere as the door to the war table opened and Knight-Captain Cullen stepped out, ridiculous fur thrown around his shoulders, his armor gleaming. It was new, that armor, but all Hawke saw was his Templar robes, his Templar attitude, and his Templar actions. A very timely reminder, all things considered.





	the past is false promises

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katling/gifts).



Hawke liked to pretend he didn’t enjoy making himself a nuisance among the rich and powerful, but a place like Skyhold made him want to do one better and insinuate himself right in the middle of it, too, and not even pretend. Not because he cared or because he wanted to influence anyone, but simply because there was so much fun to be had when Orlesians and Fereldens were regularly forced to interact and, horror of horrors, behave themselves. Nowhere else in Thedas were there so many people trying to curry favor from the likes of people like Hawke—though not Hawke himself. Apparently his reign as the Champion had ended sometime while he was working with the Wardens. Long live the Inquisitor. Frankly speaking, witnessing an Orlesian woman attempting to flatter Sera was the most fun a boy like Hawke could have at this stage in his life.

There wasn’t much else going on for him except scolding Stroud and every other Warden in his vicinity. It was like handling his baby brother, but he never could quite get under Stroud’s mustache the same way he managed to irritate Carver simply by existing. It just wasn’t much _fun_ when he actually had to work at it.

Maybe that was why Hawke saw fit to, well, interfere was too strong a word for it, but definitely poke his nose in places he didn’t belong that might still be sore spots even a year after the last time it mattered. Grinning, a little feral, Varric watching from his spot near Skyhold’s door—and wasn’t that saying something, he wanted to pretend he still could leave anytime he wanted, like he wasn’t invested in his own heroics now—with a slight, possibly dissuading frown on his mouth, Hawke loped toward the Inquisitor, who stood near the door that led to the war table.

“My lady Trevelyan,” he said, grandiose, sketching a bow. “How very well you look today. And you as well, Lady Montilyet.”

Eyes sparking with mischief—and oh, how glad Hawke was that a woman of humor ended up being the most powerful mage in all the land—the Inquisitor turned toward him, nodding in greeting as Lady Montilyet pursed her lips together and regarded Hawke with a pleasant distance. “If you’re intention is to save me from Josephine’s lovingly detailed reports of Orlesian treachery,” she said, smooth accent on full display, “then you are by all means welcome to flatter me as much as you’d like.”

“There is something I wished to discuss with you, if that constitutes a savior’s action,” and here, he dropped the false cheerfulness just enough to alert them all that what he had to say did matter in some way. If only to him. “If you have a moment. When you have a moment. I do apologize. Presumptuousness is my only flaw, you know.”

“I’m very certain of that, Serah Hawke,” Lady Montilyet replied. And though her tone for him was merely polite, she reserved a warmness for the Inquisitor that Hawke couldn’t fault in the slightest. “We can finish discussing this at your leisure, Inquisitor.”

“Thank you, Josie. Now what—”

But Hawke’s attention was suddenly elsewhere as the door to the war table opened and Knight-Captain Cullen stepped out, ridiculous fur thrown around his shoulders, his armor gleaming. It was new, that armor, but all Hawke saw was his Templar robes, his Templar attitude, and his Templar actions. A very timely reminder, all things considered. Hawke had finally decided it was time to speak with the Inquisitor about him. And here he was, practically mocking every mage, dead or alive, who’d ever stepped foot in Kirkwall by having been named the Commander of the Inquisitor’s army, trusted by the Inquisitor, a mage herself, to protect what remained of the rebel mages. It was abominable.

She had to know.

He felt Varric’s eyes on the back of his neck, his disapproval clear from even this distance. _You’ve got the wrong idea about Curly, Hawke,_ he’d said. _Just leave it be. Cullen’s not going to subjugate anyone, not here, not now._

 _Not ever,_ Hawke replied, _if I had my way_.

 _But you don’t. People change. You don’t have to like him, but I don’t think this is gonna go the way you want it to_.

 _We’ll see about that_.

“Hawke?” Trevelyan said, allowing her hand—not the glowy one—to grab his forearm.

Cullen’s eyes snapped up to meet his and immediately dropped again as he murmured something to Lady Montilyet. Within a matter of seconds, Montilyet’s voice trailing after him, he strode away, skirting the edges of the hall as he headed toward the exit. _Coward_ , Hawke thought, perhaps not very kindly. But Hawke had never been one to spare another’s feelings when the truth—or a joke, but in this case, the truth—was on the line.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, her voice more brittle now. She didn’t suffer fools, their dear Inquisitor didn’t, and Hawke had made himself a fool plenty of times. Perhaps she already knew something of Hawke’s thoughts, his concerns. When he looked at her, he saw something approaching defensiveness in her gaze. And when she gazed past him, there was a softening in her look that boded ill for the warning he intended to offer her.

He meant it genuinely, but she might not see it that way.

“Yes,” he replied, as placid as he knew how to be. _Did you know your precious military leader used to terrorize mages?_ “Though I would like to say something that I’m not sure you’ll want to hear.”

“Oh?” Trevelyan’s eyebrow arched. “And what’s that?”

“Be careful, Inquisitor.” His head jerked vaguely in the direction he knew Cullen to have departed in. “In my experience, Templars don’t change their stripes.”

“And in my experience, Cullen is a competent, dedicated military commander who has worked through his issues and attempts to be a better advocate for all people every day, mages included.” She kept her voice calm, but Hawke could tell that she was, at the very least, annoyed by Hawke’s warning. Hawke hadn’t grown up in a Circle; but he did know Anders and he saw what Circles did to people. From everything he’d heard, the Ostwick Circle was a gentler prison than most. Still, she knew what they were and could be. Which was, he suspected, why she didn’t immediately throw him out of Skyhold for his insolence.

“Perhaps you should talk to him,” she said when Hawke said nothing.

“You’re far too optimistic for your own good if you believe that’s happening,” he said. Raising his hands, he shrugged. “But I’ve said my piece. I will no more trouble you with my concerns.”

Trevelyan inclined her head with far more grace than many people would have after hearing their friend get insulted. Hawke couldn’t be sure he’d have been anywhere near as understanding. “And on the very slim chance you’re right, at least you’ll get to say, ‘I told you so.’” It was clear to him that she found that chance to be so low as to be impossible, but Hawke still appreciated the gesture.

Warm, he smiled. “It seems you do know me. I do so love being unexpectedly, dramatically right.”

The Inquisitor’s smile was far more predatory in return, like she intended to make a wager on it and knew for a fact that she would win. Not that he knew anything about people who guaranteed their own wins, not at all. But, well. He did. And right now, the Inquisitor would have given Isabela a run for her coin. If Hawke wasn’t concerned before, he knew he should have been, but he just couldn’t bring himself to worry.

Big mistake.

He should definitely have worried.

*

Skyhold’s various courtyards were lovely despite the coolness of the air—high elevation would do that to you—and the icy chill that accosted Hawke with every burst of wind that managed to cut its way through the trees. If Hawke cared about such things, he might have marveled at them. Instead, he stood beneath one, bristling as he chafed his arms up and down from elbow to wrist. On the other side of this particular open space sat Dorian. And Cullen. And the Inquisitor.

They were all playing chess. Well, Dorian and Cullen were playing chess. The Inquisitor was spectating, sketching her hand across the board and whispering to Dorian every so often. The breeze picked up their raucous laughter and, occasionally, a stray word or two, each one spoken in slightly different, yet all equally appealing, accents.

Yes, even Cullen’s.

The bastard.

He’d always sounded so good when he insulted and distrusted mages, his voice so earnest as he picked out Hawke as a risk worth taking because he’d put his ass on the line for Kirkwall for years. Hawke never let himself think too much about it before. What would he have done? Propositioned Cullen on the basis of his voice alone and made sure he didn’t say anything disparaging between the start and end of the bout of madness that got them to that point? No, of course not.

And yet, here and now, with Cullen sitting across from a pair of mages and having the time of his life, that voice sounded a lot more compelling.

Damn him. And damn the Inquisitor for putting the thought into his mind: _maybe you should talk to him_.

And maybe she should fight Corypheus herself while Hawke disappeared into a cave somewhere. That might’ve been more Anders’s style than his, but at this very moment, it felt like a viable strategy for all concerned. Especially himself. If he was in a cave somewhere, he didn’t have to look at Cullen not berating or otherwise belittling a mage for gifts he had no role in gaining in the first place. It was maddening to say the least. And rather unfair.

Somewhere underneath the zeal was a man worth knowing. Even back then Hawke had known it, which was why he suffered through the rest of Cullen’s worst attributes. He wasn’t a good man exactly, but he wasn’t Meredith either. And he didn’t just recite his vows and mindlessly…

Well. If what Hawke had heard was true, Cullen at least had reasons to fear mages. It didn’t make up for anything, and Hawke would be damned if he ever said as much, but it was at least…

“Serah Hawke,” the Inquisitor called, her hand raised to indicate her position as though it wasn’t patently obvious where she was. “Would you care to join us?”

He thought he heard sputtering and he definitely heard laughter—and saw it, too, Dorian smirking behind his hand—and he was so very close to saying no when Cullen pushed himself to his feet or tried to. The Inquisitor got him to settle with a subtle gesture of his hand. His back to Hawke, Hawke couldn’t see what his face looked like, but that alone was enough to spur Hawke forward.

Discomforting the bastard might be fun.

And he could at the very least say that he’d tried. Both Varric and the Inquisitor could be pleased by that fact. “Whatever do we have here?” he asked, coming up to stand behind Cullen’s broad shoulders. Still covered in that ridiculous fur, he looked liable to overheat. _Perhaps_ , a wicked part of Hawke’s mind suggested, _you should take it off of him._ ”I didn’t realize we had so many chess masters in residence.”

In fact, Hawke wasn’t entirely sure what was going on. He’d never played chess in his life.

Cullen groaned and dragged his hand across his stubbled jaw. He didn’t dare lift his head to look at Hawke, but he did find courtesy enough in him to answer. “I would hardly call any of us here masters.” He sighed. “It’s, ah, good to see you again, Hawke.”

“It’s been quite some time,” Hawke answered and pleasantly even. “It must be nice being out of Kirkwall’s shadows.” And though Hawke chose those words carefully, they both know he really meant the Gallows—and Meredith. There were no more imposing shadows in all of Thedas for people like them. “You’ve clearly seen some sunlight since last we met.”

Flushing, Cullen ducked his head further and rubbed at the back of his neck. “I am well,” he answered as though he was walking through a spell-strewn battlefield, all sorts of hexes and curses laid upon the ground to trip people up. Finally, he offered Hawke his eyes. The timing was good, because Dorian shifted over on the bench he sat upon and offered Hawke enough room to sit across from Cullen. “You’ve not done so poorly for yourself so far as I can see.”

Hawke rolled his eyes. “The Wardens have kept me busy. I don’t think Weisshaupt has seen a sunny day since the end of the last age.”

“Perhaps clouds suit you then,” he said, only awkward once the words were out of his mouth and he decided that was the perfect time to cough. “How is your brother? Did he not become a Warden as well?”

“He did.” Reluctant appreciation filled Hawke at the mere fact that Cullen had recalled such a thing and cared enough to mention it. Surely he was doing this on purpose to curry favor or to—to what? He didn’t need Hawke’s favorable opinion to do well for himself. He already had Trevelyan’s loyalty and even Varric had nothing poor to say of him despite having known him at his worst. “As far as I know, he’s fine. They keep him away from me.” An ache settled in his gut as it always did when he thought of Carver. His only living family, hidden who knew where simply to avoid complicated entanglements. His only living brother. Isolated and isolating Hawke in return. “Stroud will only tell me that he yet lives.”

“Perhaps—” Cullen cleared his throat and his cheeks grew suspiciously pink as he looked over at the Inquisitor. He didn’t give voice to whatever thought came through his mind, but the Inquisitor straightened up and nodded all the same.

“I could speak with Stroud for you,” she said.

Hawke shook his head and mentally berated himself for the lump rising in his throat. “That’s too kind of you, Inquisitor. I’m sure I’ll survive without more detailed knowledge of his whereabouts and activities. It’s a generous thought, though, and I do appreciate it.” With a glance Cullen’s way, he allowed himself to include him in that estimation. He couldn’t say thank you to the man, not yet. Not ever maybe. But he could do that much.

Cullen, for his part, seemed to understand, offering a nod and the tiniest of smiles.

Hawke’s heart, very much against Hawke’s will, chose that moment to speed up. His mouth, too, chose to rebel and dried, every word he might have said withering to dust and the dread realization that he was in so much trouble here. It wasn’t that he truly believed Cullen had changed.

But for one moment there, he desperately wanted it to be true.

Climbing to his feet with rather less dignity and far more abruptness than was entirely necessary or appropriate, he said, “And on that note, I believe I have important places to be. Elsewhere.”

Dorian nudged the Inquisitor in the side. “I do believe we’ve been insulted. The two cleverest, most interesting and attractive mages in Skyhold, if not all of Thedas, and he says there are more important places to be. This is a grave offense to be sure. Why ever did you invite this tasteless individual to join us?”

Offering Dorian an arched eyebrow and a mysterious smile, she replied, “I’m certain I have no idea, Dorian,” in such a way that Hawke was left with his own certainty as to why.

He absolutely needed to get out of here before he did or said something he’d regret. Even at the best of times, Hawke ran the risk of doing something abominably ill-considered. And this was not the best of times, not while he felt so painfully uncomfortable with this situation and his own conflicted feelings on the matter. “Good day to you all,” he said with stiff, awkward formality.

At least Cullen didn’t see fit to respond, though both the Inquisitor and Dorian offered perplexed farewells in response to his own and Hawke was half-convinced that Cullen would do the same out of courtesy. And Hawke was glad for that truly. He didn’t need to hear more kind and out of place words come out of Cullen’s mouth.

He’d dealt with enough nonsense in his life to know that avoiding Templars was always for the best. Always. Even if their words were sweeter than he remembered. Whatever it was the Inquisitor and Varric were thinking, they were wrong.

*

“Glad to see some things don’t change,” Varric said, grumbling and amused all at once. It reminded him of how a particularly indulgent father would react to his recalcitrant, stubborn child. Sidling up to Hawke, he leaned against the same fence Hawke did; it blocked off one dusty patch of ground from the dusty patches all around it and proclaimed it ‘the training grounds.’ A bright, knowing smile accompanied Varric’s words, friendly, as though to say that, hey, Varric was your friend. He just wanted what was best for you.

Hawke didn’t—never had—doubted that. And he still didn’t. Yet sometimes, Varric’s idea of what was best included things like trips to the Dark Roads, so he wasn’t always the expert on such things.

“What’s that?” Hawke answered, half distracted by the elegantly ferocious sweep of Madame de Fer’s spirit sword as she lunged toward Cullen fucking Rutherford. “Do you think she’ll teach me how to do that?”

Varric snorted. “Hawke, you’d be lucky if she talked to you without wishing to turn you over to what remains of the Chantry,” he said. “You’re lucky even she thinks the Templars are too unreliable right now. Otherwise she might politely suggest that you find your way to a Circle.”

“At least she’d be graceful about it.” He sighed and pushed himself halfway across the plank of wood, his weight across his stomach. “It might be worth it. Look at that form.” As if to prove her point, she managed to strike at Cullen’s armor, slashing him across the chest. A dull thunk rang out and a few sparks flew, but as far as Hawke could see, Cullen was entirely unharmed. He couldn’t figure out how she kept that much control of the power she used to keep the sword summoned, but the effort must have been staggering. “Magnificent.”

They stopped fighting for a moment, Cullen taking up a stance and gesturing a couple of times and stabbing at the air repeatedly. Madame de Fer watched on avidly, her sword hanging at her side all the while. “Is he teaching her how to fight?”

“No, and you know that,” Varric replied. Raising his eyebrows, he waited to elucidate his point until Hawke was looking down at him. “He’s just showing her how to defeat Templars in battle. More effectively than she already did anyway. She’s very good at what she does.”

“So I’ve noticed,” Hawke answered. His heart thudded hard against his chest. Now that Varric mentioned it, he could see that was exactly what Cullen was doing. He recognized so many of the moves. And though he wanted to be annoyed at Cullen for it, a small part of him couldn’t help but feel glad that he was willing to do at least that much. And for a fellow mage, no less. “Funny that he should show this to the one person here who likes the Templars.”

“You sound more and more like Blondie every day,” Varric said. It wasn’t a criticism exactly, but Varric obviously wasn’t jumping for joy at the thought of it either. “Early Blondie. Before he—”

“I promise I won’t blow up any Chantries.” He tipped his head in consideration. “But I suppose the Warden stronghold might not be so safe.” If Hawke hated Templars, then the Wardens rated somewhere very near to them, because a lot of the same feelings he had for Cullen, he shared with Stroud. Of course, he did like Stroud more. That magnificent, mustached bastard sometimes wasn’t a complete waste of space. But that didn’t mean his organization wasn’t corrupt, tainted by Corypheus and blood magic and everything in between.

Across the training grounds, Cullen cried out. His sword clattered to the ground, sparkling beneath the sunlight as Madame de Fer laughed in superior delight. Hawke, never one to miss an opportunity, pushed himself onto the fence and clapped loudly. “Brava, my lady,” he said, loud enough that all and sundry could hear. Cullen immediately spun around, his mouth open. There was a hint of something around his eyes, but from this far away, Hawke couldn’t verify quite what it was. “Splendidly done.”

Madame de Fer’s lips pursed together and her eyebrow arched. She and Hawke would never be good friends, but she did incline her head and sketch something close to an almost offensively shallow curtsy of acknowledgment. “I do thank you, Serah,” she replied, grandiose. Perhaps she was unable to help boasting a bit. If so, he wouldn’t blame her, and he found a tiny sliver of amusement to share with her. Maybe she wasn’t so bad for a Circle supporter. She and Anders would never have gotten along, but they didn’t have to, did they?

Cullen sputtered, turning back to Madame de Fer. “You as well, Lady Vivienne?”

She laughed again. Hawke didn’t hear what she said this time, but she supposed it was probably very good.

“Come, Varric.” He hopped down from his elevated perch. “There are pints of ale with our names on them back at the tavern.” As much as he wanted to continue watching Cullen embarrass himself, he also didn’t want to run the risk of himself being embarrassed by the fact that he found it charming how easily flustered Cullen got at losing when Hawke knew him to be reasonably humble. For all his flaws, and they were legion, he didn’t consider his own skills to be greater than others’. And so he had no reason to be so… just like this when he was bested in combat.

Strange and stranger. He’d never met a Templar who didn’t immediately shut down when presented with his own foibles. Cullen certainly hadn’t been that way when Hawke knew him, always justifying himself and whatever nonsense he’d gotten himself into.

“That phrase is a lot more meaningful when you yourself aren’t responsible for carving your initials into the mug,” Varric replied. Too knowing, he glanced at Cullen, who was now clasping hands with Madame de Fer and leading her off the training ground.

“I thought you’d be happy that I did yours, too!” Though Hawke frowned, it took the entirety of his non-existent grace to not immediately end up with a grin on his face. “How was I supposed to know you’ve gone respectable?”

“I just don’t want the Inquisitor to think I was involved,” he answered, strolling alongside Hawke. As they put more distance between themselves and Cullen, Hawke found himself feeling much, much better.

“You just like the Inquisitor.” Hawke jogged forward a couple of steps and twisted around right in front of Varric. “And you want her to like you.”

“Funny how that works, wanting to be friends with the people around who will one day be remembered as heroes because I’ll be able to write all about their ridiculous escapades. It’s nearly impossible to understand.”

“Well, sure, when they’re not as fun as me.”

Varric rolled his eyes, but he didn’t seem to be thinking about Cullen anymore, which was the point. “Just wait until you see what she looks like when she’s disappointed, Hawke. It won’t matter that she’s not as ‘fun’ as you. Besides, you’ve never seen her play a hand of Wicked Grace. You’d be surprised just how fun she can be.”

“I’ll take your word on that account,” Hawke answered, more gracious than he really felt it was necessary to be. It wasn’t like Varric truly thought he disliked the Inquisitor. In fact, he knew that Hawke liked her; he wouldn’t have stuck around as long as he did if he didn’t. They might’ve been gathering their strength to confront the Wardens who had been turned against their true purpose, but Hawke still had plenty left to do elsewhere. “Perhaps I’ll see it some day.”

“Oh, Hawke,” Varric said, “you definitely will if you stick around long enough.”

He didn’t imagine he’d get to stay here forever, but he found the thought of it wasn’t so abhorrent as he might have imagined it would be.

Even if Cullen _was_ here and they had to see one another on a regular basis.

*

Hawke hadn’t intended to stay with Varric as long as he did, long enough to drink to the point of inebriation and wind himself back around to faintly, barely buzzed. It reminded Hawke of their nights spent in the Hanged Man, warm and comfortable and just the littlest bit dangerous. Though they didn’t run the risk of getting stabbed or stumbling into a fight here the same way they did in Kirkwall, Hawke enjoyed it. From the raucous laughter and the pointed and topical musical choices by the bard who spent her time here, he liked all of it.

As the door opened, Hawke saw that night had begun to fall, the light dark and orange. For a moment, he considered reining it in, telling Varric that it was time to pack it up and go home. His eyes and head ached a little and though his mind was clear enough, he found himself flushing to a shocking degree when it was Cullen who stepped inside. His silhouette against the burning, sunset light was unmistakable and sent a thrill of—something through him. Something he didn’t want to admit to. “And on that note,” he said, shoving himself to his feet, “I’m getting another drink.”

“What…” Varric, too, hadn’t been unaffected by their bout of drinking. In fact, he was half-sprawled across the table, his eyebrows furrowing in thought. His head turned slightly and he nodded. “Ah, I think that’s my cue.”

Before Hawke could tell him otherwise, he clamored down from the bench and made for the door, walking with more purpose than Hawke felt was entirely necessary. Torn between following and grabbing another drink, he frowned and pondered the option—and then found himself nearly chest to chest with Cullen. “Ah,” he said, immediately giving up on thoughts of following Varric into the evening air. “Hello, Cullen. How very good it is to see you in this establishment.”

“Yes,” Cullen replied, a dryness in his tone than Hawke did _not_ find pleasing in the slightest. “I’m sure.”

Stretching onto his toes, Hawke peered around Cullen’s over-sized frame—really, did he have to wear his pauldrons everywhere?—and found the way even more blocked than before. Where had all these people come from? And what were they all doing here? “Well,” he said, losing all sense of courage or interest in novelty, “it’s been nice chatting, but I think I hear Varric calling for me.”

Hawke managed three steps before Cullen’s hand wrapped around his wrist, strong and warm and tempting now in ways that Hawke didn’t even want to contemplate. His heart thudded sluggishly in his chest and he fought the urge to yank himself out of Cullen’s grasp. This was a Templar. Templars didn’t touch mages without the intent to harm. Most of the time. Barring a few individuals who stood out among the riff-raff, that was all Hawke knew to expect.

Cullen’s touch was surprisingly gentle, easily broken. If Hawke had wanted to, he might have broken Cullen’s wrist in the act of yanking away.

Hawke couldn’t help but think Cullen had put himself in that position on purpose.

“Please,” Cullen said, “wait a moment. I would speak to you if you’d allow it.”

That was the very last thing Hawke wanted to do, but he couldn’t see a way out of it that didn’t involve a degree of awkwardness Hawke was willing to admit to. Already, he felt too cornered, too out of control. He wanted—no, needed—Cullen to know that his presence didn’t scare, startle, intrigue, or otherwise bother Hawke in anyway. “Of course,” he said smoothly, a pasted grin settling onto his face. “I have all the time in the world for the Inquisitor’s closest advisers.”

That struck a hit with Cullen wincing at the words. Though Hawke was uncertain why that might have affected him, he counted it as a win all the same. “I’ll, uh.” Cullen glanced around and cleared his throat. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Is it going to be one of those kinds of talks?”

“What are you—?” Cullen’s face grew red under the warm, flickering light of the tavern. It was quite becoming if only Hawke would admit as much. “No! I don’t—I don’t even know what you mean by that.”

Hawke clapped him on the arm. “I thought you knew me, Knight-Captain. I hardly know what I’m saying half the time.”

Cullen’s face fell, a porcelain mask replacing whatever mobility and heat had been there before. In fact, he went white and his eyes narrowed. About the only heat left in him was in the fragile glare he shot at Hawke. “I’m no longer a Templar, _Serah_ , in case you hadn’t heard.”

“I did indeed.” Fury bubbled up inside of Hawke at Cullen’s arrogance. “And yet I’m uncertain a Templar is ever anything but a Templar, no matter if they trade in their robes for the Inquisition’s banners.”

“That’s—you have no _idea—_ “

“I have some idea. In point of fact, I have plenty of them.” Dusting himself off, Hawke felt better than he had in days, weeks even. This was right. Having Cullen shooting daggers at him through sight alone. There was the Cullen he knew and distrusted. “Good evening, Cullen. I won’t be needing that drink after all.”

This time, Hawke made it nearly to the door before Cullen accosted him again.

“That wasn’t—” Cullen sighed, disgusted, and Hawke couldn’t decide if it was directed at himself or Hawke. Maybe it was for both of them. “I didn’t intend to pick a fight with you. You’re right to distrust me, of course. I’ve done nothing to make you believe otherwise of me.”

One thing flickered through his mind, unbidden. That last stand in the Gallows. He’d been there, as well he should have been. That wasn’t something Hawke wanted to celebrate. But it did belie something about Cullen.

He wasn’t entirely untrustworthy.

And the fact that he didn’t try to use that here, well. Hawke heaved a disgusted sigh of his own and knew for a fact that every bit of it was directed Cullen’s way. “What do you want?” He spoke the words as non-threateningly as he knew how to, but he still managed to sound like an ass about it even by his own generous estimation. More… delicately, he added, “What is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

That wasn’t much better, but it did get Cullen to nod. “Take a seat, would you?” He nodded toward the back of the building. He was far kinder about it than Hawke had been despite the demanding nature of his words. “I’ll grab us a drink. I think we’ll need it.”

“This bodes well,” Hawke muttered to himself as he watched Cullen wind his way through the growing throng of people clamoring for ale or something stronger. Dragging his hand across his eyes, he willed his stomach to settle. It didn’t listen to him, which wasn’t so very unusual for Hawke. Most people didn’t listen to him either. It stood to reason that he wouldn’t listen to himself. Whatever it was he had to say, it couldn’t have been good.

Not that Cullen had ever said anything to Hawke that Hawke particularly liked, but he could always live in hope.

Or would have, if Cullen hadn’t invoked the need for liquid courage to confront it.

By the time Cullen returned, he’d already come up with a thousand different ways in which Cullen intended to pull the rug out from underneath him, each one more ridiculous and sadistic than the last, to the point where even Hawke realized he was probably being a little unfair.

“Are you all right?” Cullen asked, looming over him all of a sudden. In each hand, he carried a tankard filled to the brim with foam-capped ale. At least he didn’t think to bring tiny glasses of whiskey. That really would have been unfortunate. His eyes were wide and rather pretty from this angle and Hawke didn’t want to have anything to do with this.

“Yes, just—” He gestured for one of the tankards and nearly spilled it as he grabbed hold of it. Downing more of it than was probably reasonable, he waited for Cullen to sit and destroy what was left of his evening. Drawing in a deep breath, he added, “Okay, I’m ready. Do your worst.”

Surprising Hawke, Cullen laughed. Not a lot. But enough. “You do have a terrible opinion of me, don’t you?”

“What gave it away?”

“Everything.”

Cullen toyed with the handle of his own tankard, picking at the bone and metal bits that held the bone to the wood of the tankard’s body. He bit his lip—and why did that have to draw Hawke’s attention to the scar that ran through it? “You don’t want to make this easy on me, do you?”

“No.” He took another drink, this one more reasonable. “But to be fair, when did I ever make it easy on anyone?”

Laughing a little more, Cullen nodded. “That is true. I suppose it’s comforting, too, in its way.” Hawke hadn’t intended to make him laugh and he didn’t want to admit that it was one of the lovelier sounds he’d heard recently. He was losing it. That had to be it. Someone like Cullen couldn’t have an appealing laugh and he couldn’t have anything to say that Hawke wanted to hear. “I just wanted… I want to apologize. For Kirkwall. I’ve made amends where I can, but it’s… I don’t think it will ever be enough.” He said it without inflection and without self-pity. Hawke wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to feel pity _for_ Cullen, which he didn’t and wouldn’t have, but if nothing else, it was nice to hear the words. “I expect nothing from you, but I would like the opportunity to prove to you that I intend to do better.”

“What is it you want from me exactly? It’s never nothing.” Though what Hawke really wanted to know was why him? What made Hawke’s opinion so special? He’d already won over most other mages in Skyhold. Who was Hawke compared to that? He was just the man who sometimes helped Kirkwall and sometimes got the Chantry blown up because he couldn’t see what was right in front of his face.

“Nothing that you haven’t already given.” At that, Cullen took a long, slow draw on his tankard, gulping deeply in a way that didn’t fit with Hawke’s idea of who Cullen was. Templars like Cullen didn’t drink like fish. And Templars like Cullen didn’t apologize. And they definitely didn’t want things from Hawke, not even his ear for the span of a conversation.

Hawke didn’t allow himself to feel disappointment that that was all Cullen wanted from him. “Was that all?” He frowned down into his drink. “That didn’t seem so bad.” Compared to what he’d been imagining, this was downright pleasant.

“For you, maybe.” Cullen’s eyes searched Hawke’s face. He reached forward and stopped himself with his hand halfway between them. “You’ve got a—anyway.”

“What?” Hawke asked. He raised his hand to match Cullen’s gesture. “What’s this?”

“You have some…” Face flushing again, he scrubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Foam.”

“Oh!” Now it was Hawke’s turn to flush and he wasn’t even sure why. “Right. Beards. They can be annoying fuckers. Thank you.”

“Uh, sure.” Cullen’s attention fell to his mouth, his scrutiny intense enough that Hawke’s stomach flipped with an emotion far more appealing than the fear and concern he’d felt earlier. “I think you’ve, uh, got it.”

“Are you sure?” He grinned, unable to help teasing him just that little bit. He had no reason to believe now that Cullen wanted anything more than what he’d already asked for. Cullen wasn’t one to—honestly, Hawke wasn’t sure what Cullen was like under the circumstances. With anyone else, Hawke might have thought he was interested, but this was Cullen. Awkward, distant, Templar Cullen. Even if he did want something from Hawke, he’d never have mentioned it. And Hawke, Hawke wouldn’t have wanted it.

He definitely wouldn’t have wanted it.

Not from Cullen.

And yet…

“I’m—definitely sure.” Cullen’s voice took on a strangled quality that left Hawke far more curious than was good for him.

Poor Cullen.

Poor Hawke.

Leaning forward, Hawke said, “Are you really? Definitely sure?” He lowered his voice, intimate. He didn’t normally do anything like this, not in the slightest. And yet, this was also the most fun he’d had in a good, long while. If he was going to squirm, so was Cullen. “Did you see something you liked?”

That made Cullen look away and for a moment, he thought he’d pushed Cullen a little too far. But then he looked back at Hawke, a little more prepared. Which wasn’t saying much given how much he looked like a deer caught in the crossbow’s sights. “I always admired you, Hawke.”

“That could mean a lot of things, Cullen. You’ll have to specify.” A part of his mind asked him just what in the hell he was doing. The rest of him chose to go with it.

“Or I could just leave you to wonder,” Cullen retorted, disgruntled. It might’ve been a smoother move if it wasn’t so clear that Cullen merely didn’t want to say.

“You could. That would be interesting.”

Cullen swallowed. His tongue darted out to swipe at the corner of his mouth, brief, there and gone. Cullen was nervous possibly. And Hawke, jerk that he sometimes was, reveled in it. For a moment, he thought Cullen would indulge him or force Hawke to genuinely call him on his bluff. Instead, he did exactly what he said he was going to do.

Climbing to his feet, he bowed slightly forward. His voice was stiff and formal, much like the rest of him in that moment. “Thank you for your time, Hawke.”

“I—”

But Cullen didn’t stick around to allow him to say his own piece.

*

In fact, after that, Hawke didn’t see much of Cullen at all.

At first, he didn’t notice. Despite the defensiveness such a statement would normally invoke, he really did have a great deal to do and he’d spent more time than was truly necessary concerned with just what Cullen was doing and why he was motivated to do it. Knowing the reason, or at least finally hearing it from him instead of listening to the friends who’d already said the same, did a great deal to assuage Hawke’s interest in the matter entirely.

It was nice to know, he supposed, that Cullen did want to change and that he was willing to make himself uncomfortable in his desire to do so.

It wasn’t until he was sitting across from Varric in Skyhold’s main hall, a table having been brought in for him who knew when, just a little thing for Varric’s projects he guessed, that he even realized.

“You expecting something to come out of the war council chambers, Hawke?”

“What?” he answered, attention jerking to Varric. He’d been thinking about what he intended to do about the Wardens. That was his go-to excuse anyway. And he almost had enough time to say as much before Varric shot him an incredulous look. It was as close to withering as Varric ever got and it spoke to how well-worn the explanation had become. Sighing, Hawke changed his tack. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He didn’t wince. At least he didn’t do that.

Varric stared to say something else, something that probably started with ‘bull’ and ended in an expletive, but Hawke was no longer paying much attention to him now that the very door Varric accused him of watching opened and Cullen, along with Lady Montilyet and Leliana, stepped out.

He looked, Hawke was ashamed to say, very good. Too good. Good enough that his insides turned into a morass of twining, wriggling, uncomfortable interest and need. He ached to push and prod at Cullen, to find out what he was really made of. The idea that he would hurt him, a mage, seemed laughable for the three seconds that Hawke allowed himself to stop thinking of him as nothing more than a Templar.

Was Hawke nothing more than his own skills and occupation? Did everything come down to magic? Some would have said yes. Hawke, though, he never wanted to be pinned down.

“Hawke?” Varric asked, rapping his knuckles against the side of the table Hawke sat before. It did nothing to draw Hawke’s attention away from the realization he was having, swift and certain beneath his breastbone.

Damn.

 _Damn_.

Because here Hawke was, no longer only interested in holding Cullen accountable for the past. In fact, he rather wanted to walk up to the man, pull him aside, and kiss him on the mouth, find out how far he’d rehabilitated himself regarding mages and whether he would dare touch one in such a manner. Would he trust Hawke that much? Did he want it, really? They had a history, he and Cullen did, and it wasn’t always a pleasant one.

But there was something true between them that Hawke found appealing.

“One moment, Varric,” he said, standing, gathering what courage about him he could before he blew it all on rationalizations. If given enough time, he might go back to his old ways, think of Cullen as he was and not how he is. But things could change between them, get better, grow into something new and less likely to result in Hawke running off into the night screaming about the unfairness of the world.

If Varric called after him, Hawke didn’t hear it. Instead, all of his attention was on Cullen, who was now looking at him and who very prettily excused himself from the conversation he was having. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said to both of his fellow advisers. Cullen offered him a tentative smile and clasped his hands together, charmingly awkward.

“Might I have a moment of your time?” Hawke asked with exaggerated politeness.

It was so grandiose that Cullen huffed, probably amused, and wrapped his hand across the back of his neck. A flush rose from the column of his throat and he cleared his throat. “Of course,” he said, walking backward toward the door he’d just come out of. “Here. It’ll be more private.”

Private. Good. Just what Hawke wanted.

Because just as soon as the door closed behind them, Hawke pushed Cullen against the back of it. “Please don’t throw me in the dungeons I know are down here,” he said as Cullen flinched at the unexpected physicality of the action. “That would really mess up the mood.”

“Mood? What—”

Uninterested in whatever words Cullen intended to say, he lifted his hand to brush at Cullen’s bottom lip. His stubble, less impressive than Hawke’s, for sure, rasped against the pad of his thumb. His eyes fluttered shut and Hawke felt the warm press of his tongue as it darted out just a little bit. “I’m going to do something very foolish now,” he said, perhaps doing his own version of ruining the mood, “and kiss you.”

Cullen’s eyes flew momentarily open at the words and though Hawke thought it was because he intended to push Hawke away, he did the opposite. Pulling Hawke toward him, his hand coming to rest on his lower back, he crushed their mouths together. He got with the program quickly these days, so very different from the Cullen who’d dragged his feet until the end, believed until the end, that his order was full of the best people in the world. Hawke liked the change. And more than that, he approved of it.

Insinuating his leg between Cullen’s thighs, he groaned.

And because life was ultimately an unfair burden on all good, freethinking people, there was a knock on the door and Leliana’s muffled voice as she demanded to be allowed entrance. “Whatever it is you are doing, it can wait,” she called. Or so Hawke thought she said. It didn’t matter, because whatever she said, Cullen stilled at it and pushed Hawke away from him a little. With his fingers wound tight in the fabric about Hawke’s waist, that didn’t allow much movement, but it remained disappointing all the same. “Maker’s breath,” he said low. Louder, he added, “Just a moment, Leliana.”

Despite great odds, neither Hawke nor Cullen completely destroyed the mood. Also not terribly surprising, the world managed to do it for them. “Of course,” Hawke said, feeling far more bitter than was probably entirely within his right. Hawke took a step back. His own beard would hide most of the evidence of their deeds, but he wasn’t certain Leliana wouldn’t immediately notice how truly red Cullen had grown. From top of his head down to what little of the rest of him was visible, he was red. And his lips as much as the rest of him thanks to Hawke’s careless ministrations.

At least he hadn’t taken the opportunity to run his hands through Cullen’s curls. That would’ve made it far too obvious.

Why couldn’t it have been anyone other than her?

“We should talk about this,” Cullen said, pulling at his tunic.

“That’s become a theme with us,” Hawke answered. “In this case, I can’t say I mind it. At least if what we should talk about is when we’re doing this again.” There, that wasn’t so bad. And if Cullen said no…

“That sounds like a plan,” he answered, warm. Clearing his throat, he nodded toward the door. “Would you perhaps like to meet in my office later?”

“Later?”

“Now.”

“Now?”

Cullen nodded.

“Now is good.” Hawke nodded in return, willing his face to find something approaching a blank evenness that wouldn’t immediately get him into trouble with their resident spymaster. “Well, a few minutes from now. When it’s not quite as obvious what I’m doing.”

Cullen smiled a bit weakly. He leaned in and pressed another kiss against Hawke’s mouth. “That sounds just fine to me,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.”

“See you soon.”

At that, Cullen pulled open the door. “Leliana.” His voice was more innocuous than Hawke expected it to be. “A pleasure as always.”

Biting back a grin, Hawke nodded at her as well. “Lady Nightingale.”

“Gentlemen,” she replied, suspicious. But since she said nothing else, he didn’t feel it necessary to elucidate the truth for her.

At this point, he didn’t much know what the truth was.

But he sure looked forward to finding out.


End file.
